Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous
by crimescenelover
Summary: A simple mission turns quickly into a fight for survival for Aramis. He must rely on his Musketeer brothers to even make it through the hard, dark night ahead.
1. When the Morning Comes and I Look for Yo

**Title** : Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous

 **Chapter title** : When the Morning Comes and I Look for You

 **Author's note:** First Musketeer story. This is my new obsession! And I've watched all three seasons all within the same few weeks and I absolutely loved it! This is only a short, little piece with simple motivations and simple story. Just an excuse for a little Aramis whump, which popped up in my mind one day.

This takes place a few years before the series start so no d'Artagnan in this unfortunately.

But enjoy and do be so kind as to leave a review when you're done, thanks!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the Musketeers or anything you might recognize

* * *

Athos lightly blew on the small flame and sat back when it rapidly began growing bigger as it grabbed a firm hold on the kindle. He watched and waited patiently for the flickering flame to spread to the firewood gathering in the pile. He was in no hurry for it to burn.

It was late in the spring and as such the days were starting to get warmer and brighter for a lot longer. Sundown was still a few hours away, so there was no dire need for a fire to get going. Not until Porthos showed up, that was, the large man no doubt demanding food be standing ready when he arrived. Athos had been the first to arrive of their encampment, which they had already set up from early morning, and so had begun gathering wood to light a fire while he waited for Porthos and Aramis to join him.

The three Musketeers had been sent to different Comtes in the nearby area, all armed with important letters to each one from the King. They were all within a few hours ride of each other and as such the three friends easily made the decision to assemble at a designated spot when their duty was over, to rest and eat together before heading back to Paris the following morning. Though they quickly found out the far easiest spot for all to reach in decent time had been out in the woods, they had all agreed that as long as they had each other's company it was far better than whatever small tavern they could conjure up, with only themselves and their horse as company. Aramis had been quick to counter that should he have ended up alone he would have gladly found someone to share his bed. Preferably of the female kind.

Athos had only shrugged his shoulders at the jest and moved on to further business. Aramis always had a knack of finding woman to share his bed and more often than not it led to some trouble. Nothing had ever gotten serious and they had all shared a good laugh at Aramis' expense afterwards. However, Athos still firmly believed that one day the Musketeer's good fortune would run out and real trouble would find him. Trouble he could not simply talk or duel his way out of.

The sound of hoofs disturbing the soil brought Athos out of his musings. Alert and ready for danger, he looked up, his hand already nearing his rapier. His body relaxed immediately as he saw Porthos on top his pale horse, riding alone peacefully. He looked worn from the day's ride but nodded his greetings as he drew nearer the clearing.

With a grunt he quickly dismounted and tied off his horse next to Athos' brown mare.

He took a quick look around and a satisfied smile graced his features as he saw only Athos sitting by the flickering fire.

"Looks like Aramis'll be buyin' the first round when we return to Paris," he smugly stated, as he sank down next to Athos

"Indeed. So perhaps it's time we try the finest wine Langlais has to offer," the swordsman agreed.

* * *

They waited for an hour and a half for Aramis to join their camp. However, as the sun began its journey towards the horizon and the sky slowly started taking on an orange color, worry gradually eased its way into both Athos' and Porthos' bellies.

They knew sometimes these assignments wore on a while longer than intended, should the Comte decide to reply immediately yet without truly knowing how to respond. However, Musketeers travelling alone would sometimes encounter ambushes and the like from those opposed to the King and his rule.

None of the two Musketeers voiced their concerns, but they didn't need to either. At first they had brushed it off.

"Probably found himself a lady friend, to whom he couldn't say no. It has happened before," Porthos had argued. Athos had only nodded.

But as much as Aramis occasionally got distracted he would never leave his two most trusted brothers in the dark for long. He would find a way to let them know he was alright even if he was spending the night in a woman's bed. And as time passed, slight concern grew to worry.

It exploded into anxiousness as galloping hoofs thundered across the ground. Porthos and Athos both shot up from the ground, pistols and rapiers at the ready as the source ran into the clearing.

It was Aramis' horse.

The animal slowed quickly as she neared the two Musketeers. Her nostrils flared and her breathing was ragged. Clearly she had been spooked, but somehow still held the sanity to find her way back. Porthos stepped forward towards the creature, his hand reached up before him. He waited patiently as the horse calmed and stuck her snout into his hands, seeking the comfort. She was normally a gentle and loyal beast, who never strayed too far from Aramis' side. The sight of only her brought a deep, hollowing pit in Porthos' stomach.

Something bad had definitely happened. One look over at Athos and he saw the swordsman had reached the same conclusion.

The decision was made easily.

They tied off Aramis' mare next to theirs and made sure she was calm enough not to panic and stir up the other two. They decided to leave their own horses by the camp too, should Aramis arrive while they were gone, and headed out on foot.

None of them spoke much. They were both trapped inside their minds, running all possible scenarios through their heads, speaking none of them as all were horrifying and frightful to speak out loud.

The hope that they ran into him, hair and clothes ruffled with a sheepish grin on his face dwindled and disappeared completely from their minds. Instead the images were replaced by his lifeless corpse lying on the side of the road. Those images were quickly pushed to the back of their minds as it was too much to bear should it actually be true.

The Musketeers reached the point where the lake bended to rejoin the side of the road a little while later, seeing no sign that Aramis had come by or that he was anywhere near.

That was until they saw a man slowly walking towards by the side of the road.

At first it was only a shape but they got closer it started to become easy to distinguish clothes and features. It was definitely Aramis. And they were extremely relieved to see him up and walking, but as they got closer that relief soon faded to the back of their minds. Aramis was walking without his usual grace, unsteady on his feet, wobbling and stumbling with each step. His clothes were crumpled and askew, covered in dirt and torn in a lot of places. His right hand held his rapier in a light grip and he didn't seem to notice that the sharp tip was carving a thin line in the dirt behind him as he walked. Blood covered some part of his face and the front of his shirt. Whether it was all his was impossible to tell.

"Aramis!" Porthos shouted as they got closer, almost at a full run.

He didn't respond. He stared steadily ahead, his eyes dull and unseeing. He didn't seem to register his two brothers drawing nearer.

"Aramis," Porthos gently tried again. When he finally reached him, he put a hand on his chest to slow him down.

The marksman didn't have the strength to fight back and simply stopped dead in his tracks. When he blinked it was sluggish and seemed to require a great amount of strength to open them up again.

"Aramis?" Athos tried as he placed his hand on Aramis' opposite shoulder.

Aramis blinked a couple of times as if it could shake him from his catatonic state. His brow furrowed after a couple of seconds and his eyes suddenly focused on the big man standing in front of him.

A small relieved smile stretched over his lips as recognition sparked in his gaze.

"Porthos," Aramis breathed.

Then all energy seemed to leave him. His eyes rolled into the back of his head and he crumpled bonelessly to the ground.

 **TBC**


	2. I'll Keep Marchin' On

**Title** : Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous

 **Chapter title** : I'll Keep Marching On

 **Author's note:** Thank you guys so much for the positive feedback on the first chapter! And as such, I give you now chapter 2! Hope you will enjoy this one just as much as the first one and as always, please leave a review when you're done :)

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the Musketeers or anything you might recognize

* * *

 _Three hours earlier_

Aramis rolled his shoulders in an attempt to straighten out the kinks in his sore muscles. It was unavoidable if one spent most of his day on horseback, whether he was used to it or not.

The Comte he had delivered his message to, had been eager to write back at the nearest convenience and so he had been forced to stay a few hours more as the nobleman had scribbled away his answer. He knew that meant he would be the last to arrive at their encampment and as such would be the one to buy their drinks at Langlais, the tavern the three Musketeers were fond of stationed closely to the Garrison, the moment they reached Paris again. At least supper would stand at the ready when he arrived, assuming Porthos hadn't already dug into it.

Aramis both loathed and enjoyed message deliveries such as these. It could be enjoyable as most of the time he was sent off along with Porthos and Athos, occasionally another Musketeer from the regiment, so they would not travel alone. However, travels such as these rarely held any excitement or danger. Not that Aramis wasn't grateful for not fleeing or fighting for his life every waking moment, but he was still a warrior and a soldier for the King. He was no errand boy, but these missions still came in the job description so he refrained from complaining too loudly.

He estimated that he couldn't be more than an hour's light ride from their camp when everything began spiraling out of control. His mare twitched suddenly, as if something had rattled her, and her ears flattened slightly.

That Aramis had moved his head a fraction of an inch to the right to inspect her face was probably the only thing that saved him. Just as he moved, a loud bang echoed through the trees. A hot, searing pain shot across Aramis' forehead and hit with such a force it threw him from his horse. He landed on the dirt with devastating force and all air left his lungs, leaving him breathless and his body throbbing. His hat rolled off his head, forgotten. The musket firing hadn't been far away and the loud sound startled his mare so greatly that she pranced in panic and took off down the road, her hoofs echoing as she galloped away. Aramis watched her leave through blurred vision, his head pounding so hard he couldn't focus properly.

He desperately tried getting to his feet but his body felt filled with lead and refused to heed his commands. He managed to lift his head from the ground and through the shrouded veil covering his eyes he saw three dark figures sliding down the hill slope from the forest, coming his way. He felt blood flowing down his cheek.

He knew he needed to move. They had aimed for a kill shot, which meant they probably weren't intending on keeping him alive. With clumsy fingers, he grabbed a hold of his own musket and tore it from his belt. He rested his arm on the ground and took aim. The figures seemed to melt together and in the end Aramis just fired and hoped he hit the right shadow.

His aim was true. The ball sailed through the air and hit one of the men in the chest. He sank to the ground in a crumpled heap. The two remaining men seemed stunned and could only stare at their fallen comrade for a few seconds, seemingly trying to grasp that their victim was still able to fight. Those precious seconds was all Aramis needed to gather his strength. He managed to get his feet underneath his legs and stumbling got up. His legs were shaking with the effort and the world still tipped around him.

The shadows took on a more solid form of two now angry-looking men, dressed in dark, travel-worn clothes. They didn't look like any farmers or Parisian normally would nor did they look like soldiers. Bandits, looking for people to rob on the forest trails, seemed far more likely. That there were only three here to ambush him seemed unlikely though and Aramis feared more would come to their aid. He would not be able to fight them all, certainly not in this state.

He desperately tried to steady his drumming heart and shaking body as the two men came at him. They were on him before he had drawn his rapier from its sheath properly. He tried stalling for a few seconds more by lashing out at the first one who came at him. With his vision still blurry and mind still reeling, the man easily evaded his punch and captured his arm, holding on tight. The second one came at him from the front, drawing a small knife from his belt. His lean face was contorted into a sneer.

"You killed 'im!" he spat as he raised his weapon.

Aramis acted quickly. Before the blade got close enough, he twisted thus earning some freedom from the bandit's firm hold. Using that man's weight as an anchor Aramis kicked off from the ground with both feet and planted them firmly in the second man's chest, sending him sprawling to the ground. Both Aramis and the first bandit were forced to the ground by the sudden move, both of whom rolled to their feet quickly. The man drew his own knife as Aramis drew his rapier. He knew the second bandit would not stay down for long, so he charged first. The bandit paraded his strike at fist but was too quick to counter and Aramis spun on his heel as he evaded the small blade and stuck his own weapon between the man's ribs.

The Musketeer didn't even get a chance to pull out his rapier from the body before he felt arms circling his body and throwing him through the air. The last bandit had recovered and tackled him violently to the ground. They didn't break apart but trashed about on the ground, both hitting and kicking their opponent where they could. Porthos had always been the best fighter in their regiment, not just because of his strength and his size but also where he came from, and so he had taught Aramis some of the more useful and dirtier tricks he knew. Aramis didn't hesitate using all of them now; hitting all exposed spots and sensitive areas he could, knowing where to put pressure to do the most damage. But his strength was waning as the fight dragged on and he knew he had to finish it soon or he would surely loose the battle. If not with this man, then with the rest of the bandits who undoubtedly lurked nearby.

He summoned whatever energy he had left to push the bandit off and in one smooth motion grabbed the smaller blade at his back and plunged it into the bandit's throat.

The man gurgled a single time as blood seeped from his mouth and the fatal wound and then he became still.

Aramis rolled off of him and lay there for what felt like eternity, panting for breath. He knew he had to move and yet he could not find the energy to do so. He waited until his vision not longer held black spots and his heart wasn't pounding in time with his aching head. When he could finally get his limbs to cooperate he rolled off his back and only made it to his knees before a burning pain in his abdomen stopped him. He couldn't stop the groan from escaping his lips.

His hand found the hurting spot and he pressed down, earning another stabbing shot of agony running through his body. Looking down, he saw his gloved hand was covered in red. The wound lay hidden underneath his garments so he had no idea how bad it was. He haven't even noticed or felt anything pierce his belly during the fight. There was no use dwelling on it. He had to move before the rest of the bandits found him and their dead comrades. He could tend to his injuries later.

Aramis took a deep breath to steel himself before making it the rest of the way to his feet. His body protested, his head pounded even harder and his vision swam wildly but he managed to stay on his feet. He looked around. So far no one came running at him from the trees so he took it as a good sign. He took his rapier, still lodged inside one of the men, and started walking.

He headed in the direction of their camp.

The process was slow-going and Aramis felt his energy waning step by step. Sweat collected at his forehead and at his back. His breathing was shallow. His head was still throbbing. His surroundings faded to the back of his reeling mind. All he could focus on was keep putting one foot in front of the other.

 _Keep moving._

 _One step at the time._

 _Don't stop._

 _Keep moving._

He told himself over and over again. Several times he stumbled but he stubbornly kept upright. He didn't know how much time had passed or how far he had gotten. He kept walking.

That was until he felt himself being stopped and vaguely he heard someone calling out his name. It was strangely familiar voices yet he could not place them. Everything was floating in and out of focus, his eyes drooping heavily without his consent. His mind was reeling and he knew that if he passed out now there was a good chance he would never wake. He had to stay awake.

Then he found two faces floating in front of his and it was only when he blinked several times that he realized who was there.

"Porthos," he breathed, relieved.

And feeling safe among his brothers, he finally allowed himself to surrender to the beckoning oblivion.

 **TBC**


	3. It's a War That I'm Fighting

**Title** : Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous

 **Chapter title** : It's a War That I'm Fighting

 **Author's note:** And here we have the third chapter! I want to thank all of those who have reviewed, alerted and favorited so far! It means a lot!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the Musketeers or anything you might recognize

* * *

Porthos sighed in relief when their camp entered his vision.

His shoulders were burning and his legs trembling slightly by the time they reached the encampment. He had Aramis cradled tightly in his arms, the Musketeer completely limp and oblivious to what was occurring around him. His head lolled against Porthos' shoulder. It worried the Musketeer to no end; the sharpshooter hadn't even stirred once since they found him and he had collapsed right in front of them.

When they reached the bundle of tree logs in the middle of the camp, Porthos gently eased Aramis to the ground, cushioning his head with his own scarf. Meanwhile Athos fetched as much water as he could carry and by the time he returned Porthos had removed Aramis' pauldron and leather coat and checking for whatever injuries he could find. They hadn't truly examined their friend yet. They had no idea what had transpired out there on the road but from the looks of the marksman it hadn't been pretty and they hadn't wanted to linger there anymore than necessary. It was only now they could get a closer look at Aramis.

Porthos felt his anger flare up in his chest. His brother's face was slack with unconsciousness and his complexion was deathly pale. Blood had gathered and dried to cover the entire right side of his face and clustered in his curly hair from a deep graze on his forehead; a musket ball no doubt. His white shirt was deeply stained with red on the left side and when Porthos peeled the garment away he found the reason why. A large, deep gash had ripped through the skin, still bleeding sluggishly. The edges were ragged and torn and Porthos knew it would be horrible to close. The unconscious marksman had one of the steadiest and nimble hands for stitching wounds when a physician was nowhere near yet he couldn't fix his own now threatening to bleed him dry. Porthos' eyes drifted longingly to Aramis' limp hands and noticed bruising and scraps covering his knuckles. A small hint of pride entered his heart. At least Aramis had refused to go down without a fight.

He shared a look with Athos as the swordsman prepared to light the fire again.

"You have better hands than I," he grumbled reluctantly. He wanted nothing more than to help his friend the best he could, but he knew out of the two of them Athos was the best one for stitches.

They switched places quickly and Athos too examined the wound on Aramis' stomach. He winced as he probed it gingerly. "We need to stop the bleeding before we do anything else," Athos calmly said and balled up a spare shirt he had snatched from his tent. Without hesitation he placed the shirt on the wound and pressed.

The deep groan that action elicited from Aramis was music to Porthos' ears, however painful it sounded. He moved away from prodding the growing flames as they heated a pan of water and moved back to Aramis' side, as the marksman started moving his head from side to side.

"Aramis? Can you hear me?" Porthos gently tried.

"P'rth's," Aramis mumbled, his lips barely parting. He moaned a single time before blinking his eyes rapidly open.

The big Musketeer had never been gladder to see those brown orbs, gazing up at him. Pain and confusion mostly echoed in them but there was also relief. A small twitch pulled at his lips as Aramis tried to summon energy enough to smile but he fell short as another wave of agony sailed across his features. His whole body tensed momentarily and Porthos placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, offering the silent support. His heart was aching with concern and he shared a glance with Athos. The swordsman eased the soaked shirt away from the wound to get a glimpse and Porthos leaned forward. By now, most of the blood had gone so they could properly see the gash, the broken skin even more torn than before. Athos sighed heavily as he poked the edges as gingerly as he could.

"I don't believe we can sew this shut. Not with the materials we have," he said as his eyes fell on Aramis' face. "We have to burn it."

Aramis only nodded at the information as he hadn't the strength to lift up his body to get a look. He trusted his brother's judgment and knew what would happen next. He steeled himself the best he could and fixated his gaze on the darkening sky, already a dark blue above him, and asked God for strength. Porthos took Aramis' hand in both of his.

"You squeeze this as hard as you can, a'right?" he reminded him. There wasn't much else he could do other than offer his support and anchor his friend amidst his pain. They had to clean it first however and dipped some cloth in the now boiling water Porthos had set over.

Athos began cleaning away as much blood as he could, both inside and around the wound. Aramis grinded his teeth together as agony tore through his body and he tightened his fingers around Porthos' grip, praying God would ease his suffering. He was heaving heavily by the time Athos was completely done and sweat had started to collect on his forehead. But the worst was yet to come and he knew this.

Porthos followed Aramis' painful gaze to the small fire where Athos was holding a thin knife, the blade showered in the hot flames. He saw his friend's trepidation and squeezed his hand as a reassurance. Aramis squeezed back and sent him a grateful smile, wordlessly showing him his thanks and how much he appreciated his steady presence. As the steel began to glow brightly orange in the flickering fire, Porthos produced a small roll of bandages and stuffed it inside Aramis' mouth and the marksman nodded his readiness.

Athos moved from the fire and hastily placed the blistery blade onto Aramis' exposed skin. Smoke rose from the spot and the smell of burning flesh filled the camp. Porthos flinched at the unpleasant odor but tightened his jaw so hard he worried he might break it when he saw Aramis' reaction. The Musketeer's fingers clasped down on his grip so hard that had he been but a little stronger he would have broken the digits while his other hand grasped at the dirt and tightened into a fist. His eyes were clenched shut in pure agony.

Porthos tightened his own grip on his friend's hand, hoping that his presence would shine through the agonizing distress. A momentarily respite from the pain was offered when Athos had to reheat the blade but returned again shortly after as the knife was placed on the wound once more. Aramis' back ached as much as it was allowed. Though it was muffled by the rag, his screams were impossible to ignore as the pain got too much. They were loud and chilling and seemed to go on endlessly and without pause.

Then slowly they began to ebb away to loud moans. Then they completely disappeared as Aramis' grip went slack and his entire body became limp. His head lolled weakly to the side, his eyes closed again.

He had lost consciousness.

"It was for the best," Athos said, his voice low. In his eyes shone sadness and apprehension and Porthos knew he took no enjoyment in what he had just done. The wound was closed and together the two Musketeers worked on wrapping Aramis' midsection tightly in bandages.

That done both sat back, feeling completely drained and empty, simply staring at their unconsciousness brother, watching the hitched rise and fall of his chest.

* * *

Athos began moving slowly after. He turned his attention to the fire and the food they had dragged along. Porthos didn't budge from his position; sitting vigilant at Aramis' side, keeping the marksman as comfortable as he could.

Occasionally the Musketeer twitched or a tremor shook his body and Porthos would gently stroke Aramis' hair or squeeze his shoulder. He was a constant presence and he made sure Aramis knew as such. His mind kept drifting to the moment they found him on the road, hatless and bleeding, and Porthos had never been more frightened. They had no idea what had happened and would only have to wait until Aramis woke up to tell them. He knew there had been a very real chance they had not managed to find him alive. He knew they could've just as easily found him lying completely lifeless on the road instead. And that would have been their fault. Because they had not been there by his side to help him like they should. They were the King's Musketeers. They were brothers in all but blood and that meant they all held a responsibility for each other's lives. Their title came with a lot of danger and usually when they strapped their pauldron on their shoulder, a target was strapped onto their backs as well. They protected one another but this time both he and Athos had failed that duty. Aramis had been alone and faced his perils singlehandedly.

Porthos knew he was being irrational and that the guilt tearing at his heart was only deep fear for his friend's life but still he couldn't really help the feeling from running through his head. Aramis was his best friend and he would gladly put his life in those steady hands and that done so for several years now. He could not bear the idea that he would no longer exist in the world, joking and smiling at his side. He refused to believe that could be a reality. Aramis was like a cat; he had nine lives. Nothing to sway that man. He always came out on top. And perhaps Porthos had gotten a little too used to that idea. And now their brother was lying before his feet, injured and unresponsive.

Athos shook him out of his disturbing thoughts and offered him a bowl of warm stew. Porthos took it with a grateful grumble.

The swordsman sat down next to him with his own steaming bowl, eyes drifting to Aramis. With a softness only selected few got to see, he pulled the blanket covering the marksman further up his shoulders and tucked it in. Then he went back to eating.

Aramis didn't seem to heed the attention or care. He laid trapped no doubt in his own mind, battling his own demons. It showed on his face. His eyebrows were creased so his features were stuck in a pained grimace. His breathing hitched every now and then as he took his loud, strained breaths.

There was nothing to do but wait until he showed more signs of life and keep checking the bandage to make sure the wound wouldn't start bleeding again.

So both Musketeers settled in for the long wait through the night.

 **TBC**


	4. Look Into My Eyes

**Title** : Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous

 **Chapter title** : Look Into My Eyes

 **Author's note:** Me again! I'm so sorry that it has taken me this long to update! But currently I only have one hand to write with so progress is a little slow and we had no internet for a while as well, so it is only now that I have been able to update! But I hope you're still with me! The story is almost finished actually so enjoy!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the Musketeers or anything you might recognize

* * *

The night proved long indeed.

About halfway towards dawn, Aramis began moaning loudly and turning his head weakly from side to side. His breathing turned rapid like it was suddenly harder for the Musketeer to draw a breath. Porthos was by his side immediately, a water skin in his right hand.

"Easy, Aramis, breathe," he said, but his friend didn't seem to hear him.

He continued his thrashing about, which increased in strength until his whole body was violently twisting around on the ground.

"Hold him still," Athos' voice said from behind him. The swordsman moved swiftly to Aramis' other side and grabbed a hold of his legs, where the heels of his boots were scraping around in the dirt. Porthos did the same to his shoulders and held his head still. Gloveless as he was, it was easy to feel the heat radiating off the sharpshooter's forehead. The fever had settled in.

"He's burnin'," Porthos divulged with a firm look at his fellow Musketeer. Athos' eyes fell at the knowledge. Both of them knew that fever in this instance would only be followed by infection and if that happened, Aramis was suddenly a lot closer to God than any of them wanted.

Athos moved from retraining Aramis' legs, which went right back to twisting, and removed the blanket from Aramis' midsection, gently unwrapped the bandages to look at the ugly wound hiding underneath. There, just around the burnt flesh, he could see the beginnings of infection setting in. The torn edges, ugly-looking and ragged, had turned a slight angry red. Athos cursed under his breath.

They were definitely in for a long night.

He showed the wound to Porthos, who instantly shared his frustration and murder flashed dangerously in his eyes. He held no doubt the Musketeer vowed right then and there that whoever had done this to their brother would pay with their lives, especially if Aramis didn't make it. Nothing could hold back Porthos once he was on the war path and though Athos usually stayed out of matters such as these, he would gladly follow his friend to the end of the earth for vengeance this time.

Athos immediately set up another pot of water and placed it in the flames, tearing another piece of spare clothing to use as a rag. When the water began to boil he cautiously dipped the rag in the hot water, wrung it out and began the tedious task of cleaning the wound as much as possible without opening it completely again.

Throughout the night this continued. Neither Athos nor Porthos got any sleep. They took turns keeping a keen eye on Aramis to make sure he didn't get any worse and cleaning the wound with boiled water every now and then. A soaked cloth rested on his heated forehead. That was all they could do other than pray to God that their brother made it through the night. A couple of times they found Aramis' eyes to be open but they were clouded with delirium and pain and he didn't seem to sense his brothers' presence, only the fevered demons haunting his mind.

Thankfully the fever hadn't risen any higher and eventually it broke. Slowly but steadily it began to decrease. Aramis' body also completely ceased its trashing in the early hours before dawn. It stilled sluggishly and ended when it seemed all of Aramis' energy had been used up. The night had proven hard on him without a doubt and now he slept steadily with no interruption. Something both of his brothers were extremely grateful for.

The sun soon peaked forth over the horizon, sending the first warm rays across the land and bathed everything in orange and pink light. It was about then that Aramis began to stir. Porthos was at his side like he had been throughout the dark night so he had been the first to hear.

The slight groan, elicited from Aramis' throat. It was followed by the furrowing of his eyebrows as he struggled to open his heavy eyelids.

"Aramis?" Porthos coaxed. "Can you hear me?"

The Musketeer grunted slightly, which was followed by an incoherent mumble.

"Speak up, mate. I can' hear you."

"I dropped my hat," Aramis muttered, this time stretching his parched voice loud enough for his brother to hear.

Porthos couldn't help the chuckle escaping his lips at the statement. He had feared the worst right up until that sentence left his friend's mouth. With those words, Aramis managed to blink open his eyes, revealing tired-looking but lucid brown orbs. A weak smile played at his lips as he gazed up at his brother.

"Glad to hear you're still wit' us," Pothos smirked.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Porthos clamped a hand on Aramis' shoulder and tightened as much as he dared without hurting him. Those words alone were enough to strength Porthos' resolve and the deep pit of aching concern that had been gnawing at his insides the past many hours just got a little easier to handle.

The small feat of talking had left Aramis completely exhausted and soon his eyes drooped again as sleep beckoned him closer.

"Rest, brother. I'll be here when you wake again," Porthos insured.

Aramis drifted off to a deep slumber.

* * *

"You can't be serious …"

Porthos' gruff voice tore him out of his slumbering. Aramis had been floating pleasantly in the realm existing between unconsciousness and wakefulness. There had been no pain and no hardships to deal with. Only calm, relaxing darkness. It toyed with his mind, taking away his sensations and toils, leaving him blissfully unaware of his aching body and the surroundings around him. But his brother's voice had been enough to tear him away from the dark and pulled him right back into the land of the living.

There he was met with the harsh reality of his predicament. His whole body was stiff and sore from the abuse it took yesterday along with having laid still on the rough ground through the night. His head still pounded in time with his heart, throbbing mercilessly along and obscuring his thoughts. The worst however was his midsection. The stab wound was burning with agony at every breath he took and filled most of his torso with a smarting fire that at the worst moments tingled all the way down to his fingers.

He wanted nothing more than to curl up and disappear back to the luring realm where there was no pain. He knew it was foolish but the thoughts appeared nonetheless. He prayed that somewhere God was watching over him and He would guide him through the hurt haunting his mind and body.

Aramis knew it to be useless to lay and ponder his ailments so instead he turned his attention back to the conversation that had dragged him into the land of the living. He estimated by the sound of their voices that Athos and Porthos were no more than a few feet away from him, no trying to hide their voices so they had no idea he was awake yet.

"He ain't strong enough to ride!" Porthos argued.

Aramis didn't need to guess who they were speaking of.

"What do you suggest we do?" Athos' low voice countered. "Wait for the bandits to return? Aramis needs proper help not whatever we can give him. Paris is but a few hours away."

"Not with 'im it is. It would take at least half the day before we reach the citadel and then it's the matter of reaching the garrison as well."

"Should the bandits return they will do so in numbers," Athos reasoned. "We can't defend him if that happens."

"The ride would kill 'im. You know that," Porthos' voice took on a sadder tone.

Aramis ventured opening his eyes and blinked a couple of times to adjust to the daylight shining brightly. It was indeed another beautiful spring day yet none seemed to feel its refreshing warmth.

He turned his head gently to watch his brothers, pleased to find that the ground barely tipped this time. He knew Athos was right; it had been the only thought keeping him upright yesterday after all. The few bandits that had attacked him were nothing compared to the numbers they normally found themselves in. The three Musketeers couldn't rely on the hope that it had merely been stragglers. If they belonged to a larger party, they would no doubt find their camp eventually. And then it would be better to be gone and on the way back to Paris than caught by vengeful bandits.

"I'll do it," Aramis rasped, shocked at the sound of his own raw voice. Quiet though as it was, it got the attention of his two friends.

Both snapped their heads around, looks of surprise and relief mixed together etched into both their features when they saw him awake. It actually would have been comical had circumstances not seemed so severe. Porthos was the first to move and he squatted quickly down by his side, a water skin clutched in his hands.

He offered it to Aramis, who drank greedily, feeling the fresh and cool water run down his parched throat. When he was done, he spoke up again.

"I'm ready. I'll do it."

"Aramis …" Porthos said. His voice had taken on a mellow tone. The fact that he thought it a bad idea shone clearly in his eyes amidst the swirls of concern.

"Porthos … Athos is right. The party that attacked me only consisted of three. The bodies left on the road … They will be found, soon, and no doubt by their brethren. It's too great a risk."

His brother still looked highly doubtful. Aramis did his best to mask his pain and put on his signature confident smirk.

"Trust me, my friend. I can handle it," he said softly.

It seemed to do the trick as Porthos sighed heavily and up-giving. He smiled fondly down at his friend and then nodded slightly.

"A'right," Porthos drawled but then his face turned serious. "But you ain't ridin' your horse. You're ridin' with me and I want to hear no arguments about that!"

Aramis couldn't help the huffed laugh that escaped his lips, managing to ignore the spike of pain the movement caused. "I suppose that is fair enough."

"Let's get you upright, then," Porthos muttered.

Aramis nodded. He steeled himself and began lifting his upper body with his hands while Porthos supported him from the back. He was barely halfway there when his senses were assaulted by the onslaught of agony that erupted from his wound the moment the muscles there contracted. He gritted his teeth against the burning fire but that didn't stop the groan was escaping his mouth. His world reeled as his surroundings tipped and turned and the Musketeer closed his eyes in a desperate attempt not to pass out. He heard his fellow Musketeer's comforting words but found it hard to concentrate on them. He felt hands on his body and then he was moving slowly across the ground. He focused all his energy on simply breathing and staying awake.

Then it was over. He was learning against the rough bark of a tree trunk and it allowed his muscles to relax. The pain subsided to the dull fire it had always been and breathing suddenly got easier. He found the courage to open his eyes and when the world swam into focus he saw both Porthos and Athos staring at him, the constant worry etched into the lines of their faces.

"I'm alright," Aramis tried to reassure his friends, but his timid voice and heavy breathing probably sold him out.

"And I'm the Queen of France," Athos dryly remarked. He turned around and resumed packing their things into the saddle bags of their horses.

Porthos remained, his stoic eyes staring down at Aramis. He looked like he wanted to speak out and the marksman was just about to open his mouth to tell him to let it out but he never got the chance. From somewhere behind him, a branch broke, stealing the attention of all three Musketeers.

"We're not alone."

 **TBC**


	5. I'll Be There, Catching All the Black Li

**Title** : Tous Pour Un, Un Pour Tous

 **Chapter title** : I'll Be There, Catching All the Black Lights

 **Author's note:** And here, at last!, we have the final chapter! I hope you have enjoyed this little story and would greatly appreciate your thoughts and kind critism! Enjoy!

 **Disclaimer** : I do not own the Musketeers or anything you might recognize

* * *

Porthos fired his musket and watched in satisfaction as the bandit collapsed to the ground.

Then he turned and felt his worry and trepidation as he saw Aramis struggling to his feet. He was using the sturdy tree trunk he had rested on only a few minutes before to steady himself as he rose to his feet. His legs were shaking and sweat shined on his forehead. His brows were furrowed in pained concentration.

This was of course what they had been trying desperately to avoid. Aramis was in no condition to fight yet that would undoubtedly happen. Athos and himself only had to hold the other bandits off as long as they could before they reached their wounded brother. The trouble was they had no idea how many they had to fight.

Athos had managed to cram whatever important belongings they had into the saddle bags and now stood a few feet away, his rapier in his hand.

Porthos too had drawn his own weapon, waiting for the rest of the hidden men to appear in their camp. He handed his fired musket to Aramis and Athos quickly followed suit along with whatever extra loading materials they had. Even in a weakened state, Aramis was by far their best shooter and as long as he had space and time, he would still be able to help without engaging in the fight.

His own musket still lay somewhere forgotten on the dirt road where he had been attacked, along with his beloved, feathered hat.

Soon black-clad men seemed to flood into the camp, yelling their ferocity and confidence as they charged at the Musketeers. Luckily, many wasted a lot of their musket shots and none of the balls came close enough to do anymore damage. Aramis' shots however echoed loudly in the clearing as he fired and both balls hit their mark. Two men fell, dead before they hit the ground. He began reloading the muskets as Porthos and Athos dived into the fray.

More men fell by their sharp blades. Their focus was on as much as incapacitating the men as it was on stopping them from getting nearer Aramis. But there were a lot of the bandits and it was hard keeping track of all the whirling bodies, crashing together and breaking apart.

In the end it had been a foolish hope that Aramis could stay out of it. Porthos paraded a desperate blow from one of the men and with his blade engaged he slammed his heavy fist into the man's head and he crumpled to the ground, no doubt seeing stars. With his knuckles stinging, Porthos had turned just in time to see Aramis awkwardly block a blow from a bandit, his wound restricting him greatly so he moved without his usual grace. He managed to finish the man off but it seemed like it left him breathless and worn out. But he remained standing on his feet and Porthos returned to the next bandit in front of him.

They continued to parry, swipe and advance on the swarm of bandits and for awhile they managed to hold them all at a distance. But as it dragged on, more slipped through their defenses and made their way to what was clearly the vulnerable target to them; the wounded sharpshooter. Aramis managed to hit several of those that came in his direction with his lightening reflexes as he reloaded the muskets again and again, aiming with deadly precision. But fatigue started to set in and if Porthos began to feel it in his muscles then by he was sure Aramis felt it too.

A cry of pain echoed through the clearing and Porthos recognized his brother's distraught voice in a split second. He kicked away the bandit in front of him and spun around, desperately seeking his brother. Aramis wasn't near the tree trunk anymore. Porthos ran forward, searching. He found the marksman tumbling on the ground, wrestling another bandit. Both tried to gain the upper ground but they seemed equal and so continued to roll about on the leaf-strewn ground. Porthos tried to move forward but two bandits swarmed him and kept him occupied. He fought them as hard as he could all the while keeping his attention on the wounded Musketeer.

"Athos!" he called, trying to draw the swordsman's attention towards the situation. Athos seemed to have already noticed it and had tried to move forward as well to aid his brother but a whole bunch of men kept him from advancing.

Porthos violently kicked out at the man in front of him and heard one of the ribs give. The man curled in on himself and Porthos used it to finish him off. One of the men incapacitated the Musketeer had a direct line of sight to Aramis, who was rising unsteadily back to his feet. Porthos mistakenly took it as a good sign but not a second later he saw the bandit on the ground in front of Aramis kick out at his stomach.

"No!" Porthos yelled but he was helpless to watch as the foot planted itself firmly on Aramis' belly and the force and no doubt accompanying pain sent him flying backwards, rolling on the ground. The earth there was sloping slightly where it ended in the river. And Aramis were sent straight into it.

Porthos screamed his fury and fought even more vigorously than before. He held back on no punches and his rapier drew more blood than ever before. Anger fueled his movements and his weapon guided him through assailant after assailant as one by one the rest fell by his blade. He spun, twisted and jumped about, ignoring every cut or bruise blossoming across his skin. Aramis' face floated in front of his eyes and he knew that if he had to drop every single living thing to get to his brother he would. His arms were burning now with the strain and he felt his breathing hitching in his chest. He slashed at the bandit in front of him mercilessly and he limply slammed into the ground. He turned, expecting another to take his place but he found none.

He simply stood there, letting himself catch his breath. He looked around for Athos to see how he was faring but the sound of a musket's safety being pulled got his attention. Porthos' eyes found the source quickly. A bandit stood a few feet away from him, the musket aimed at his head. This close it would be a sure kill shot. The man made to pull the trigger and Porthos wouldn't be able to move out of the way quick enough.

The shot rang out.

But instead of severe pain or dark oblivion Porthos felt only his aching, tired body, same as before. Slightly confused, he could only stare at the man as he choked, blood running out of his mouth and pooling down his chest. He stood shocked for a few seconds, looking at the big hole in his torso, and then he tipped to the ground, never to move again.

Porthos looked to his left and saw Aramis, alive and breathing, holding a smoking musket. And Porthos could hardly remember being more relieved that his brother had saved his life.

He was completely drenched, his thick hair soaked and sticking to his forehead. His eyes were large and his chest moving up and down rapidly, breathing ragged and troubled. Soon the hand holding the musket began to shake and the weapon fell, useless, to the ground. He swayed dangerously on his feet. Porthos moved just as his knees buckled and caught him before he crumpled to the hard ground, just as he had done merely a day before.

"I got you," Porthos whispered as he struggled to support Aramis' flailing body. "I got you, brother."

* * *

Aramis winced as Porthos wrapped the bandages around his midsection tightly, while the marksman stared determinedly into the orange flames of the small fire by his feet.

The wound had reopened after the skirmish, which wasn't surprising for any one. Least of all Aramis who had felt the moment blood had started seeping through the bandages. He was sitting leaning up against a tree again, feeling the gnarled surface of the bark poking into his back. But it still felt good to be sitting down and resting again. The memory of being enveloped by the cold, unforgiving river water and almost choking in it, feeling the darkness etching ever closer, were still entirely vivid in his mind. It was not an experience he longed to repeat, lest not anytime soon.

While Porthos had hovered by his side for the past few hours, Athos was making the final preparations for their departure. They had decided to remain at the clearing for another couple of hours, given the fact that Aramis had started bleeding again and was now soaked to the bone and it was only a mere hour ago he had regained his senses fully; otherwise he had swam between awake and unconsciousness, drifting in and out of both as the pain had raged through his veins. It wouldn't have been wise to put him on a horse right then, even if he wasn't steering.

Athos and Porthos had also gained a few cuts and bruises from the fight, most of which didn't need tending to, but Aramis had convinced them to at least rest and clean their own injuries. He wanted nothing more than to help, but seeing as how his hands kept shaking and twitching he thought it best not to handle needle and thread should the need arise. So he had settled for staring them down and if they were being stubborn he tried to get to his feet slowly, which he never succeeded in but it got the job done. Both of his brothers complied easily after that.

Athos came into view from behind Porthos' shoulder.

"All is ready. Are you?" he said as he gazed down on Aramis, sympathy and concern shining in his eyes, though the rest of his demeanor showed nothing of the sort.

The marksman nodded.

"Good. And Aramis," Athos said, waiting until he had his brother's eyes again. "Don't ever do something that foolish again." There was no reprimand in his voice, only affection and mirth.

Porthos huffed a rough laugh. "Which I believe is translated to 'I'm glad you're alive and don't ever scare us like that again'."

Aramis smiled wide and lightly shrugged his shoulders without hurting himself further. "Do you believe he will be terribly angry if I were to ask him a favor before we depart?"

"Depends on the 'mount of danger you'll place us in," Porthos replied knowingly. He had not failed to notice the slight mischief sparkling in his brother's eyes.

"Do you think we could circle back to the road to retrieve my hat?"

 **The End**


End file.
